


Interlude

by nishizono



Series: Principles of Morality [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-17
Updated: 2011-06-17
Packaged: 2017-10-20 12:08:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/212621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nishizono/pseuds/nishizono
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade isn't the only one who has the occasional crisis of faith.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interlude

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** Age disparity (Sherlock is 18, Lestrade is 32)

Lestrade has always been a heavy sleeper, but he's developed a sixth sense for when Sherlock's not in bed. It's three in the morning, and he can't tell if it's the absence of Sherlock beside him or the smell of cigarette smoke that wakes him up.

He rolls over and finds Sherlock perched in the window, wearing nothing but his underwear and a t-shirt. He's got his knees against his chest and a lit cigarette in his hand, and he's staring off into space.

“You shouldn't be smoking,” says Lestrade, his voice gruff from sleep.

Sherlock glances over at him, takes a pointed drag off the cigarette, then blows the smoke out the window. He keeps his face turned away when he's done, which Lestrade has come to learn is a sign that something's bothering him.

“Give me some,” says Lestrade. He shifts closer to the edge of the mattress and reaches over to take the cigarette. The smoke burns on the way down, and he rolls onto his back so he can exhale toward the ceiling.

“Do you think I'm a terrible person?” asks Sherlock.

Lestrade frowns and hands the cigarette back. “Why would I think that?”

Sherlock taps a fingertip against his temple.

“I don't know where you've come up with the idea that you're a sociopath.” Lestrade sighs. “You're perfectly capable of caring about people, you just let other things get in the way.”

Sherlock laughs, but it's a dry, brittle sound that no boy his age should be capable of. “Is that what you've been telling yourself? That I care about you?” He shifts in the windowsill so that he's facing Lestrade with his feet on the floor. His eyes are narrowed and the muscles in his jaw twitch when he asks, “And did you think I gave a toss about you when I came in here and demanded that you fuck me, knowing it made you uncomfortable? Knowing you'd feel guilty?”

“Is that what this is about? You think you forced me into this?”

Sherlock doesn't reply; he looks away and takes another drag from his cigarette, then lets the smoke out on a long, ragged exhale.

Lestrade watches him. He stares at the slope of Sherlock's nose and the gradual curves of his mouth. His hair is a mess and his eyes are bright even in the near-darkness. There's a heaviness in his posture, like he's got the weight of everyone's future pressing down on his shoulders. He's beautiful.

“Greg,” whispers Sherlock. “If I ever do what they say I will--”

“You won't,” says Lestrade.

Sherlock glances up at him, then looks down again, staring determinedly at the floor. “If I do, would you be able to stop me? I'm not asking if you could outsmart me; I'm asking if you could chase me, run me down, maybe even kill me if you needed to.”

Lestrade's stomach lurches. It's nothing he hasn't asked himself a million times before, but hearing it said aloud so dispassionately is almost physically painful. But Sherlock is waiting for an answer, and as much as Lestrade hates himself for it, he has one. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, if I had to, yes.”

There's a tense silence, and Lestrade doesn't know how to break it. Fuck, he's just told his teenage boyfriend that he could kill him, and he'd meant it. He could kill Sherlock if he had to, and just thinking those words make him sick.

“Thank you,” says Sherlock, abruptly. Before Lestrade can reply, he's tossed the cigarette out the window and climbed into bed to crush their mouths together in a kiss. There's nothing sexual about it, nothing even sweet; Sherlock is sealing a promise, making sure Lestrade won't forget.

Ten minutes later, when Sherlock has finally settled, stretched out on his side with his cheek on Lestrade's shoulder, Lestrade touches his jaw and says, “You know, the fact that you worry so much about whether you're a sociopath should tell you that you're probably not.”

Sherlock is quiet for a moment, and then he whispers, “Are you in love with me?”

Lestrade is more or less used to Sherlock's non sequiturs, but this one hits him like a punch to the gut. Once again, it's nothing he hasn't asked himself, but this time, he can't give Sherlock the answer. Of course he's in love. How could he not love this brilliant force of nature lying next to him? But loving Sherlock and telling him so are two entirely different things, and the thought of letting those words slip out is a fear that haunts him every time they fuck, every time they kiss, every time he wakes up in the morning with Sherlock sprawled atop him, still asleep.

“I don't know if I want you to be,” says Sherlock. He burrows close and slides an arm around Lestrade's waist. “I don't know if I want that responsibility.”

“Go to sleep,” whispers Lestrade, because the truth is, he's not sure he wants it either.


End file.
